


Bitter Blooms

by whiteknucklesparrows



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: F/M, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 01:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20024467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiteknucklesparrows/pseuds/whiteknucklesparrows
Summary: Shouta decides he cannot live without you.You decide you cannot live without the sun.In both of your fierce desires; one selfish, one innocent, the ground in which your love will bloom is salted, condemned to death.





	Bitter Blooms

**Author's Note:**

> this is perhaps the piece that im proudest of, ever

The sun glints in your hair the first time he sees you, casting a halo of light on your otherworldly face. It blinds him. 

You’re playing in the field with your attendants, nymphs that could never hope to be as lovely as you. Flowers bloom beneath your feet- literally, white rosebuds and zinnias and little daisies that stand proud.

He watches for hours, until the whole field is covered in fragrant blooms and the sun has started its slow descent down. He didn’t think you could get anymore beautiful, but as you stop to watch the blood-red sky, ruby light illuminating youthful features, his heart stops. 

He decides that he cannot live without you.

On the other side of the field, unaware of your secret admirer, you decide you cannot live without the sun.

In both of your fierce desires; one selfish, one innocent, the ground in which your love will bloom is salted, condemned to death.

——-

He watches you for six moons, watches as the warm spring sun brings pure joy to your face and leaves sweetpeas in your footsteps, views the soft white of Eucharis lilies trail after as you revel in the never-ending heat of summer. 

Below, the world of the dead slow to a halt as their king spends his days yearning after a goddess with a warmth so unlike his own, wondering if they might be able to bring warmth to his cold, dead realm. 

Hades decides he has to find out. 

——

The bright yellow blooms of Narcissi are the bringer of your doom. You cannot help but reach for them- so lovely and unlike any other flower in your arms, but with the first brush of velvet petals against soft skin, the earth rumbles and a chasm forms. 

An abyss of darkness chases after your nimble feet, but even graceful leaps are unable to save you, soft soles unused to running, unused to danger. As you fall into the never-ending void, you wonder if this will be your end. 

Gods can’t die, you know that much, but to endure an eternal descent in pitch-black would be close enough. 

Your lids flutter closed, assured that the soft rain of bright petals above you will be the last thing you ever see. There is a warmth to this darkness, almost like the brush of robes- 

Strong arms catch you, and the darkness takes the form of a man, solemn and somber with eyes like Chaos itself. The antithesis to your world of light, and yet you cannot help but think that he is more beautiful than any flower the sun could give you.

That does not mean you stop loving its warmth.

——-

You cling to your light robes for a week, until they are tattered and worn, gossamer fabric dirty with your own sorrow and fear. The marble palace is not cold, per se, and yet you find yourself shivering every time its lord leaves you. 

The hatred you feel at the warmth he gives you is only eclipsed by the cold fury of being separated from your home. Picked flowers die, stems growing soft, petals withering; you know that much intimately and from experience. 

He has not dug you carefully out of the ground, roots intact, and transferred you to another home; no, he has snapped your stem in blind ignorance, caging you in glass for his own admiration, both knowing and unknowing of your slow demise. 

Petals fall, colours fade, and yet he still cannot see that it is he who kills you. 

‘Shouta’, is all he has said when you had gotten to your knees and begged the lord of the Underworld to set you free. 

‘For you, my name will never be Hades, only Shouta.’ He holds you as he says this, salty tears seeping into the cool black fabric of his robes. Your skin burns where he touches you, but it is not like the anger of the sun. When mortals die of cold, they begin to feel feverish, overheat, and in their final moments all they can do is strip to escape the oppressive, imagined heat before the ice takes over.

You are in your final moments, stripping away parts of yourself as the incandescence of Shouta’s love burns you alive and freezes your heart. Orange lilies turn to candy tufts, and the world above has a taste of its first winter. 

——-

When you tire of locking yourself away in cold marble rooms, you begin to wander your new home. Sometimes you sit on the small black throne next to Hades himself, listening as souls petition the cold king for mercy, for another chance, another life.

You want to shout at them to go, to stop wasting their never-ending breath and eternal time, because you know better. Shouta will never let you go, not until the end of your long, immortal life. He has tried his best to give you a poor approximation of one, but it means nothing when he has stripped your former life away himself. 

Still, time goes on, and it becomes tiresome to carry such rage. It grows weary, when there is no sun to measure the days and years mean nothing to a god. Sometimes, you sit on his lap, wrap your arms around him and tuck your face into his neck. 

Flowers are beautiful, and you are grateful for your ability to create them, but they do not lend themselves easily to power. Hades makes you feel unstoppable.

‘Shouta’, you whisper into his ear, eyes half lidded and body languid against his. ‘My lord.’ The shudder that runs through the god of the Underworld at your words is as sweet and heady as any ambrosia, and brings a warmth so different than that of the sun.

Petunias bloom in your wake, strange and lifeless in this cold, unfeeling world. Your anger and anguish at being torn from youthful innocence is a raw wound, and though it is Hades who caused it, it is Shouta who soothes like a cool balm against fevered skin. 

Your imagined heat drives you mad with thirst, and Shouta is cool water, a fresh stream trickling through the snow. 

——-

His flesh is cool against yours the first time you let him into your bed. Warm hands trail up the hard plains of muscles carved from marble, and when your touch lingers for too long, it is as if he steals your warmth for his own. Selfish even in his most basic of functions.

It’s been who knows how long, and though you are not mortal, you fall prey to human cravings. Pleasure can be found in the most undesirable of places, and as soft praise spills from hated lips, your heart wrenches. 

Hades, no, Shouta, is your jailer. He is your lord, your king, your husband by decree of Zeus and he is the one that holds the keys to your prison, who lets you rage and sob and bury your face in his robes all the while looking with eyes of immeasurable sadness.

He kisses sweet apologies up the flesh of your thighs, devours you like Tantalus seeing food, drinks you in like you are nectar from Ganymede’s cup. Surely someone who brings you to such heights of pleasure cannot be as bad as you think?

You think of Hera, condemned to a loveless marriage to an unfaithful husband, love turning rancid to hatred like sweet wine to vinegar. At least your husband will never leave you; has sworn on the river Styx that his love for you will never run dry, that he will never let you go and your snare of his heart will never end.

That is more than most can ask for, you know. Love does not come easy to ever-living beings, when hundreds of years pass in the blink of an eye and personalities remain unchanged. No room for growth, no roots for love to bloom. 

The earth of your love has been salted, but it is earth nonetheless. Hades’ soft, mournful love nurtures the delicate petals, and you do not forget your love of the light.

You cannot live without the sun, but Shouta is your sun now. 

Shouta cannot live without you, so you will never leave.

——-

When the spirits that crowd into the throne room become more and more skeletal, eyes gaunt not just from lack of life, you know something is wrong. Your mother’s name falls from restless lips, angry and resentful, and you know. 

The land above you is dead, as barren as your mother’s heart without you. Shouta cannot live without you, you cannot live without the sun, and your mother cannot live without her daughter. 

She is playing her last, desperate card; an eternal winter as cold as Zeus’ refusal, as empty as his mind when he promised a child to his brother. Soon, the dead outnumber the living, gods starving as sacrifices stop while Demeter roams barren fields lamenting the loss of her love. 

Unbalance is rife within the world, and Hades is not fool. On the fifth year anniversary of your disappearance, Shout takes you by the hand, guilt written clear across his face, eyes filled with such bleak despair that your heart aches for the man who kidnapped you. Your heart aches for your husband.

When you reach the destination, tears well in your eyes, tears of joy and tears of sorrow. You know not to eat the food of the Underworld; lest you bind yourself eternally to the land of the dead. Yet, perfect and whole, a small pomegranate tree stands proud, flesh as red as the rubies which litter your husband’s kingdom. 

‘I- I am sorry. A choice, for when you had none.’ You’ve heard the whispers; Hermes will come on behalf of Zeus to negotiate for your freedom, for the survival of the gods. Your freedom is on the tip of your tongue, close enough to taste, and yet all you can dream of are the tart burst of blood red arils. 

With shaking hands, you split the crimson fruit, taking six perfect seeds in the palm of your hand. Your choice- six months in the sun, reveling in the memory of lost innocence and childhood, and six months here, ruling the dark land of the dead at the right hand of your husband. 

You look into the eyes of the man who stole you from your life, who gave you power when you had none, who looks at you like you are more precious than all the gold and gems the Underworld has to offer, who offers you the keys to your prison five years too late. 

There is sweetness to be found in sour moments, you think. You strip away the final piece of clothing, expose yourself to the cold, core burning bright, and embrace the cool kiss of death. 

Shouta’s lips are warm against yours, and you wonder when you began to steal the warmth back from him. It does not matter- your white rosebuds are long gone, petals dried and dead, and there are only tulips now, yellow as the flower that first pulled you in. 

Salted land still bears fruit.

**Author's Note:**

> come visit the [hellsite](%E2%80%9Dhearteyes-candyskies.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)


End file.
